The Art (and Science) of Grumpiness

Weird experiments pay off. Months ago, in need of a bit of a jump start, and with my "life coach" having been ejected from the proceedings for vehemently arguing a blatant no-call on what should have been a 5-minute major roughing foul on Fate, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I rounded up my treasured Seven Dwarves action figures, tossed them into a Derby hat, shook well, then plunged my hand blindly into the mix to pluck the dwarf who would lead me on the path to enlightenment. The deal was, no matter which dwarf I randomly picked, I would swear to devote the next six months of my life to his precepts alone. Admittedly, I was a little concerned about what that would mean if I happened to wind up with Sneezy, but you throw such caution to the winds when they're howling in mid-winter Cleveland and your mojo is ebbing. I drew Grumpy, laughed a grunt or two, told myself, "Well, this should be easy," and didn't think I'd think much more about it. But as the hours then days passed, I couldn't help pondering, What does it mean to submit wholly to grumpiness? Well, for a few weeks now I thought I had an answer, but I was too astounded by it all to state it publicly. But now science, God love it, because I sure don't, has arrived with validation. Basically, it all boils down to this twisted little Cartesian koan: I think clearly, ergo, I must be grumpy.

Yes, folks, read all about it here: an Australian psychologist's study claims that being grumpy helps us think more clearly, make better decisions, and be less gullible. Gloominess breeds attentiveness and careful thinking, Professor Joe Forgas (and how can you not trust an Aussie named Joe who's for gas as opposed to being, well, opposed to it?) says. As I have cultivated my daily grumpiness (yes, those of you who deal with me on a regular basis, I indeed do have to work at it; it doesn't all come naturally) lo these past few months, I have noticed a much sharper, more successful, if you will, overall thought process in my life. Whereas in less consciously grumpy times in the past I might have gone ahead with my plan to snorkel June away in the Gulf of Mexico, this past March, when I was making my summer plans, I thought the matter through and said, you know, that Gulf region is a bit unstable, I think I'll just stay at home and look into importing some vuvuzelas; sooner or later the U.S. market for those things is going to skyrocket. Want further proof that grumpiness has bred keen thinking in me? On March 31st I buried my annual euphoric inklings about the Cleveland Indians' chances, and in true all-out grumpiness, shouted into the Cleveland ozone: "The Tribe's gonna suck this year; 105 losses if we're lucky, maybe more like 111." Who you calling a foolish grump now, eh?

And so, with science on my side (and let's face it, whose findings do you find more reliable, an Aussie's or some German guy's?), I can now go public with my grumpiness routine. I'm sure you'll find, if you follow it closely, you'll soon be thinking much more clearly about the world you inhabit.

First, invest in a couple of cheap snooze alarm clocks. Set them for random times during the night, and bury them all around your bedroom. A lousy night's sleep is essential for prime grumpiness. A couple times a week, totally mix up your morning ablutions: squeeze toothpaste into your arm pits, brush your teeth with shampoo, ditch the deodorant althogether, shave blindfolded after a couple shots of Listerine. You'll be feeling most bad and nasty then. Kick your imaginary friend in the shins as you leave the house, then drive to work in reverse with Barry Manilow blasting on the car stereo. Commit to a short, pithy, and completely unfriendly mantra with which to interact exclusively with everyone who crosses your path. Something like, "to hell with it all," or "I don't give a rat's ass, and believe me, I've got a surplus of 'em, but I'm still hoarding 'em," or, "Dick Cheney's my god, outta my way." Charming as hell, all day long, you'll be. Refrain from pleasantries and dole out the acerbities. Case in point. Today, as I was sitting outside on my break, brooding over the cloudless sky/80 degree crock of crap climate day we were having, a three-generation family of women came strolling by, obviously lost. They asked me which way to the beauty store. Now a year ago I would have said something like, "Well, surely you all couldn't possibly be more beautiful, but if you must know, it's two doors down that way." Nada. Today it was pure grumpy gall: "Skin deep gals, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Contemplate your own mortality in lieu of applying moisturizer--it'll do you all much better in the end, which is nigh, by the way." Well they huffed and puffed disdainfully and actually headed off in the right direction anyway. But by God, it worked. Grumpiness is infectious. Ten minutes later they came trudging back to me, chomping on Hershey bars. "Nothing but snake oil in that pit of chimeras. You're right son." Converts, I love them. So, embrace your inner grump, the bastard will clear your mind and save you lots of gullible grief. It's a fact, just ask an Aussie.

Frank Black & The Catholics-Horrible Day